


you'll find me in the shallows

by sxldato



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Canon Queer Character, Crying, Drowning, Fear of Death, Feelings Jams, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Male Character, Vomiting, Wet Clothing, brief nudity, fear of water, percy needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t you think it’s stupid?” He asks. “For the son of Poseidon to be afraid of drowning?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you'll find me in the shallows

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna be slipping trans nico into every fic now. it's gonna happen you can't stop me hahAH  
> the nature of percy and nico's relationship in this fic is pretty vague? so it could be slash if you wanted but it also totally doesn't have to be. it's whatever you want.  
> i don't even like percy but _nico_ likes him, and nico is my son, so i'm like "????? fine i will tolerate the pile of garbage you want to bring into my house"  
>  i think one of the reasons i don't like him is because he rarely had to make any sacrifices and he rarely had any struggles of his own. even tartarus man, like... there's no way he would have come out of that the way he did. he'd be fucked to hell. majorly messed up. so i wrote this because the degree he _was_ messed up was not realistic, nor to my liking  
>  slightly beta'd. idk i've been going through this for the entire day but it's in present tense and i ALWAYS fuck up present tense so let me know if there are any massive errors ok  
> title is from "In the Shallows" by Daughter

He forgets that he can’t drown.

-

The lake is deep, but it’s clear in the moonlight, and he can see the bottom from the edge of the dock even before he jumps in. There’s no fear of some unknown creature lurking beneath him as he swims, no seaweed that could wrap around his legs and hold him there. There’s nothing, he tells himself. There’s nothing.

He eases himself in, unable to fully enjoy how the water breaks up the summer night’s heat and washes the sweat from his skin. He starts to swim laps, covering the diameter of the lake before kicking off that side of the shore and swimming the other way. His movements are smooth and slow, but he’s not doing it for fun; he does it because he needs to prove to himself that he still can. And he _can_ do it. He _can—_

\-- for a while.

On the tenth lap, he can’t. On the tenth lap, he forgets how to swim.

Forgetting might be the wrong word. He didn’t forget; it’s the sudden panic that hits him in the gut like a ton of bricks that makes it impossible to keep going. He can’t feel his toes, can’t feel his fingers, and his legs won’t move. There’s a small part of his brain that’s telling him to breathe deeply and float onto his back, but the rest of his mind is causing so much commotion that it’s hard to pay attention. So he starts thrashing, beating the water to stay above it because he _can’t move his fucking legs_. He isn’t sure if he’s crying because he can’t focus on anything besides this fear that’s closing around his windpipe.

The violent thrashing of his arms disturbs the surface of the lake, and water finds its way into his mouth. He chokes and splutters, bringing his hands to his throat.

He forgets to tread water.  

He knows it’s over the second he’s submerged. Even though he fights his way back above the surface to breathe, there’s no way he can come down from this panic now. It’s going to take over and exhaust him until he can’t keep himself up, and he’ll drown.

He should have taken someone with him, he thinks. He should have gone before dark, should have made sure there were people nearby. He just hadn’t wanted people around to see him in case something exactly like this happened. So in that sense, he’s made the right call.

Annabeth’s right. He really _can_ be stupid.

His arms have begun to wear out and he’s forced to drop them below the surface of the water. He tries to roll onto his back and fails; it’s like his feet are attached to lead weights. He puts his head back to keep his mouth above the water, breathing hard. His heart’s pounding and it’s getting more and more difficult to keep himself up. He wants to scream for help, but it would be pointless. So he stays there, suspended in the water, and wonders how long it’s going to take before he sinks.

With his legs out of commission and his arms worn out, it doesn’t take long. He feels himself start to slip under and his breathing picks up, as if his body is trying to take in all the air it can. He can only breathe underwater if he focuses, and right now, his mind is all over the place. He knows that if he makes an attempt at breathing, water will fill his lungs and he’ll die right there. They’ll find his body in the lake, or maybe they won’t. Maybe he’ll rot there, because nobody would ever consider the possibility that the son of Poseidon drowned.

He thinks he’d appreciate the irony in that if he weren’t fighting for his life.

There’s a figure on the shoreline, shouting his name, but he can’t make out who it is in the dark and he’s steadily losing the fight to keep his face above the surface. His arms are smarting, but he drags them up anyways and tries to tread water. It’s like climbing a ladder and having one’s hands slip off the rungs every time. There’s no progress. He’s still sinking.

He hadn’t thought it possible to reach a higher level of panic, but he proves himself wrong when the tips of his fingers finally submerge. The water is eerily tranquil, and the moonlight dances across the bottom. It feels wrong to be surrounded by such peace when he’s dying in one of the most painful ways he thinks is possible. He keeps reaching for the surface, keeps his eyes on the blurred white of the moon, but he’s not going anywhere except down. He keeps telling himself not to breathe, he’s not allowed to breathe, he needs to wait until buoyancy kicks in and he goes back to the top.

Buoyancy does not kick in, but his natural instincts do. There are white dots appearing in his vision, everything is turning into a hazy purple color, and his chest is fit to burst. So he does the one thing he isn’t supposed to do, because his head is splitting open from lack of oxygen and the water is compressing his body.

He opens his mouth and he breathes.

Or at least, that’s what he tries to do. The airway to his lungs has sealed shut, and he doesn’t know if he’s thankful his body won’t let him breathe, or if he wants it to end already. All that he accomplishes is swallowing lake water, and the reflex of coughing it up only causes more water to come in.

The bliss of unconsciousness finally comes, just when he can swear that someone’s arms are wrapping around him. He decides it must be Death, and he decides that he’s fine with being taken. He welcomes anything that would pull him from the experience of drowning.

 -

“Percy?”

The night air is a relief on his burning lungs and he chokes in a huge breath. His eyes shoot open, and instead of the blurry surroundings of the bottom of the lake, he sees a scatter of stars in the night sky above him.

“Percy, can you hear me? Are you alright?”

His gaze settles briefly on a mop of soaking wet dark hair and sharp cheekbones, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything for too long. His vision is spinning and he feels like the world is tipping thirty degrees. His stomach is roiling in protest to all the water he must have swallowed, and he can’t muster up the strength it takes to roll over. He coughs weakly, and a trickle of water spills out of the corners of his mouth. He turns his head and gags, water spraying from his lips.

“If you choke on your own puke, I swear on the gods—“

Then he’s being turned onto his side by a pair of thin, skeletal hands. Percy wants to thank whoever this is—he thinks he knows, he just can’t be sure-- but he’s unable to speak. He retches painfully, and the lake water pushes past his throat and out onto the grass. It’s warm and dirty and makes him feel violently ill. He convulses, arching his spine against someone’s palm, and vomits up another spurt of water. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to stop, and he inadvertently whimpers.

“Shh, it’s okay… you’re okay…”

His hair is moved away from his face and another hand is holding his shoulder, keeping him steady. Percy groans as nausea surges through him and gags, heaving up a stream of lake water. His gut clenches and he curls in on himself to try and reduce the pain. He takes two short, quavering breaths, and the rest of his stomach’s contents come up in a gush of watery vomit. His stomach feels bloated and tight, like it’s filled with stuff he’s got to get rid of, and he continues to retch with nothing coming up.

“You need to breathe.” The voice is firm, but not angry, and he can connect it to the hands that are touching him. “C’mon, deep breaths, in through your nose and out through your mouth. You can do it.”

Percy wants to throw up again, but he tries to heed the instructions given to him. He plants one trembling arm below him and pushes himself up into a sitting position, breathing hard. The hand on his back is rubbing up and down, aggravating the lingering nausea, and Percy puts his head between his knees to choke up a final mouthful of water. He stays like that for a while, staring at the ground beneath him, fingers knotting through his hair, and hiccupping and burping between gasps for air.

When he looks up, meets the gaze of the person who’s been helping him this whole time, he’s not completely surprised. He’d sort of been right when he thought Death was pulling him from the water. Sort of. It had been Death’s _son_ , pulling him away from his father’s hold. Tonight is chock-full of irony-- the son of Poseidon nearly drowning and the son of Hades pulling him from what would probably have been his watery grave.

Hades isn’t Death, though, he remembers. That’s Thanatos. He chooses to not care about that right now.

“Why’re you out?” Percy stammers. He’s shaking all over and he still feels sick to his stomach.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Nico replies. “Curfew was an hour and a half ago. But taking a walk is easier when there’s no one to stare at you.” His shirt is in a crumpled up heap next to him, and the fabric of his chest binder is soaked. Percy can see the way the top of his breasts rise and fall as he inhales and exhales through the restraint of the elastic. Nico’s hair is plastered to his head, sopping wet, and rivulets of water are running down his body.

“You…” Everything is starting to click. “You jumped in after me. You dragged me all the way to shore.”

“Well, yeah.” Nico shrugs. “There wasn’t much else I could do, you know? No lifeguard or anything.” Nico is looking at him with an uncomfortable amount of worry. “What the hell _happened_ to you out there?”

After what Nico did, Percy definitely owes him an explanation, but he can’t get the words out of his mouth. “I—I don’t know…”

He does know. He just doesn’t want to say it. The humiliation he feels is crushing him, and the realization of what happened makes it hard to breathe even without the threat of drowning. The night air is warm, but he’s shivering and clammy, and his gut is still twisting inside him. “I’m sorry, Nico, I’m so sorry—“

“Hey, hey, look at me.” Nico’s eyes are dark, but they aren’t cold. “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me or to anyone. You screwed up; it happens. If you haven’t noticed, _I_ screw up all the time, and I’m still around.”

“You don’t screw up all the time,” Percy protests weakly. “And even if you do, ‘s not like— ‘s not like it costs people their lives.”

It’s subtle, but he sees it. He sees the way Nico’s breath catches. “We’re not doing this, Percy,” he says. “I am not doing this with you.”

“But—“

“No.” Nico pulls on his shirt and it sticks to his wet binder. “No guilt crisis tonight, you hear me? Now come on, let’s get you dried off.”

He pulls Percy to his feet and helps him back to the circles of cabins. The height difference makes it difficult, especially since Nico’s pulling most of Percy’s weight, but it works.

If you strip away the rough and gloomy exterior, Percy thinks, Nico was actually quite similar to his sisters. But he doesn’t say that.

 -

They go to his cabin instead of Nico’s. When they get there, Nico has Percy sit down while he goes searching for towels. Percy draws his legs up to his chest and huddles against the cold that won’t seem to leave him alone. He keeps going back to those minutes in the water, when he’d been so certain he would die. He keeps thinking about how helpless he was; he should have been able to breathe, but he’d been too damn scared to.

He really wishes he could stop being scared all the time. More than that, he wishes he could stop pretending to be fine.

Nico returns with a bundle of towels in his arms and sets them on the bed next to Percy. Without saying a word, he begins to bundle Percy up, wrapping one large towel around Percy’s bare shoulders and using a smaller one to dry his hair. Percy draws the towel around him, trying to stifle the shaking and bring some heat to his body.

“Should dry yourself off,” he says, noticing how Nico’s hair was still dripping water. “Don’t wanna… don’t wanna get sick—“

“Percy, it’s the summer. I’m not gonna get sick from having wet hair.” But he grabs a towel and rubs his hair down with it all the same. Percy watches as Nico turns away, stripping himself of his shirt and his chest binder, letting both fall to the floor with a wet slap. He can see Nico’s spine as he bends over to rummage through Percy’s drawers. “I’m borrowing some of your clothes.”

“That’s fine,” Percy hears himself say, but he isn’t paying attention to his words. He’s caught up in Nico’s body. He can’t take his eyes off the way his lean muscles move beneath his skin as he pulls one of Percy’s shirts over his head.

“You’re staring,” Nico comments as he tugs his pants down to the ankle and steps out of them. His legs are pale and thin, and there are scars littered over his thighs. A few of the same white lines punctuate the underside of Nico’s forearm. Percy hadn’t realized that’s what he’d been looking for until he sees them.

“Are those old?” He doesn’t mean to ask.

Nico pauses in the middle of pulling on a pair of Percy’s boxers. “Yeah, they’re old. The newest are six months, at least.” Nico leans against the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest, making his unbound breasts more visible through the baggy t-shirt.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says.” Nico takes a seat next to Percy on the bed. “What do they say to you?”

Percy’s brow furrows. “I haven’t hurt myself.”

“But you’re _hurting_. And no one’s said anything to you, have they? Because you haven’t told anyone.”

Percy falls silent, not because he doesn’t know how to answer, but because his eyes are stinging and he _really_ doesn’t want to cry.

“Percy—Percy, listen to me.” Nico’s hand is on his knee. “You _have_ to talk to somebody about this. It’s not gonna go away on its own. It’ll keep getting worse the longer you put off dealing with it.”

“I can’t,” he forces out. “You know I can’t.”

“Because you’re Percy Jackson and people expect you to be okay? That’s _bullshit_ , Percy. That’s not fair and you know it. You’re under no obligation to be okay, and if people are expecting that from you after everything that you’ve gone through, they can go fuck themselves.”

Percy scrubs a hand over his face, trying to regain some self-control. “Can you pass me a shirt from the drawer?” He knows he’s deflecting, and he’s sure Nico knows it too because he isn’t even trying to be smooth about it. But he doesn’t want to break down, and that’s what’s going to happen if they keep talking like this.

Nico sighs but doesn’t continue. Percy dresses in silence; the soft cotton of his shirt feels odd against his skin. Anything that isn’t water feels odd.

“Did you know?” He asks suddenly.

“What, that you were drowning?”

He hates that word. It sends chills down his spine. “Yeah.”

Nico seems to think for a moment. “I don’t think I realized that’s what it was, but I guess I did. Something told me to go take a walk, down by the lake.” His eyes are still dark, still searching Percy’s face. “Maybe it was you.”

Percy is quiet, taking great interest in a piece of dust on the floor. He can still smell the lake on him, and it has fear sinking in his stomach like a stone.

“Don’t you think it’s stupid?” He asks. “For the son of Poseidon to be afraid of drowning?”

“I would,” Nico says, “if I hadn’t seen it almost happen.” He pauses. “And even then, it wouldn’t be stupid. ‘Cause if we’re going with that rule of logic, then don’t you think it’s stupid that the son of Hades is afraid of death?”

Percy blinks and turns to look at Nico. “You’re—“

“Not _my_ death,” Nico explains. “At least not really. But other people? It’s all I ever think about. And seeing you tonight, pulling you up onto the shore—gods, Percy, for a minute you weren’t breathing, and—“

“I’m sorry,” he says for a second time, but those two words don’t feel like they’re enough. Nothing ever feels like it will be enough.

“It’s not your fault,” Nico insists. “You were _drowning_ , of course it’s not your fault. What I’m saying is… we all get scared, you know? We all have fears. And it might not be okay—hell, it might never be okay—but it’s allowed. We’re allowed to be scared.”

Percy balls up his towel and lets it drop on the floor. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and runs his hands through his hair. “It makes me tired. I’m so, so tired.”

Nico doesn’t say anything. It’s possible it’s because he understands, and it’s possible it’s because he knows there’s nothing he can say to fix it.

“Will you stay with me?” Percy asks, not even looking up. Nico had said it was okay to be afraid, and Percy believes him, but he still feels shame at having to ask for something like that.

“If that’s what you need,” Nico says.

Percy nods. He can give himself this night; he can let himself have these hours to be vulnerable. “I need you here.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

Percy isn’t sure if he imagined it, but he could almost swear that he feels Nico’s lips against his temple.

**Author's Note:**

> _And let it all rain down_   
>  _From the blood stained clouds_   
>  _Come out, come out, to the sea my love_   
>  _And just_   
>  _Drown with me_   
>  _Drown with me_   
>  _If you leave_   
>  _When I go_   
>  _Find me_   
>  _In the shallows_


End file.
